Zugzwang
by renaissaine
Summary: She's as sane in his lunacy as he's lunatic in her sanity. DMLL.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

 **Please if you don't like this pairing, don't waste your time posting your hate comment. Thank you.**

To leap is to die or kill. No, murder. To kill is to guide them to the brink of the world _tenderly_ , then with the softness of raw diamonds give a slight shove, and watch them plummet into what they hope a place of white and glory and alluring cacophony of angels' caressing whisper filling the vacuum devoid of the evil. Murder is barbaric, a rough Judas kiss, a plan fueled by malice.

To die is to bury ourselves in self-pity, drowning in our impeccable superego.

He won't jump. Malfoys don't sacrifice themselves. Slytherins don't step down, don't break the contact. He is selfish, his lanky legs are firmly rooted to the spot, and he won't leave.

She's Ravenclaw. She would give up on herself ( _she's so selfless, and he almost pukes_ ), he's sure of that. She just can't due to the organized chaos raging inside that uncanny mind of hers.

To take a step forward? They laugh in unison; hers light as flower seeds drifting in the air, his as strong and powerful as the gravitational pull of the sun.

 _Never._

It's a stalemate.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

His blunt eyes always seem to follow her around. Two grey wormholes are fixed straight when she's skipping down the corridors in front of him with her pale hair bouncing off her backside, seemingly entangled in her little world. They flicker to his right when he catches her thin figure in the library, her rainbow-colored stockings stubbornly sliding down her bony legs, she unfazed, he rubbing his temples to get rid of a sudden headache. But his eyes don't roll to his left, because he's left-handed and he's also a Malfoy, and _Slytherin, pureblood Malfoys_ don't stare at dirty blood traitors.

 _Men are from Mars; women are from Venus._ She is a girl, but she is no Venusian.

This Loon is from the Moon.

Far-away, pale and light with an other-worldly, mesmerizing energy radiating from the silver wreaths of hollow craters that reside in her round eyes, enjoying the control over his relentless tidal waves of swirling emotions.

The Moon has a power of unknown potential, while he has bad faith ( _feasting on human flesh like the Black Death)_ from Mars.

She's standing, reading her stupid magazine to his right, so he notices; his left shivers in the cold emptiness, so he speaks.

"I know your secret, Loon."

She doesn't react; he almost thinks she's off to the Moon again, maybe glazing at Venus through her glittery spectacles. She then lowers her hands, head tilting quizzically at his statement.

"Do you, Draco Malfoy?" her voice, as if trapped in a dream, cautious of the real world.

She is sane in his lunacy.

"There are no such things as Nargles or Heliopaths. Simply figments of your imagination you hide behind to cope with the unfair treatment, am I right? You're madder than I thought, now weak and pathetic too."

He is lunatic in her sanity.

Her expression retains its soft blithe, but the meaning of his mean words settle over her eyes, sinking it and washing out the dreamy haze.

"The absence of evidence is not the evidence of absence."

She took a feathery light step closer to him and he might or might not have drawn in a sharp breath. Standing on her tiptoes, she leans in, whispering sweet nothings into his ears, barely words of playful, childlike deception. She rests one finger on his white forehead, and her tongue clicks against her pearly teeth as sinless words tumble from her lips.

"I'm destined for the Moon; you're the bastard of Avarice. Primum Mobile is a beautiful place, let's go there instead."

Later that night, Luna shows Draco her Nargles. Apparently, they don't live in mistletoes; they like blood and flesh and vulnerable places where darkness can freely disseminate and engulf the light.

The Moon, Avarice, and Primum Mobile belong to Dante Alighieri's Divine Comedy, not mine.

Please R&R.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

While she passes him by in the corridors, bits of malicious remarks thrown at her (half-whispering, half-meaning them) vibrate in her ears.

"Cretin Loon."

"Freaky Blood traitor."

"Filthy trash."

"Basketcase."

"Potter's little slut."

They don't reach her hectic consciousness. There's a hemlock on her brain, and the control remote is situated in her marvelous mind and not her sensitive heart.

She's pulling her pink sneakers out of the icy lake, the smooth bare skin on her legs breaking out in goosebumps. Her lengthy hair touches the inky surface as she bends down, a position she slowly retreats from as she hears the green grass cry beneath _his_ footsteps.

He's raging with wrath-charged fever, his eyes dusty with bits of volcano ash all while wearing a nasty smirk propelled by the counterfeit of Malfoy self-confidence.

How lovely to see him so _lively._

Soon he reaches her, not caring that he ( _a pureblood Malfoy!_ ) just stepped in the shallow lake, splashing the dirty water around, resulting in dark spots on his Slytherin robes and her dandelion yellow T-shirt.

The next moment, she's violently pushed over. Her bottom makes harsh contact with the moist ground, and her hands soon follow them to keep her weight up. A sneaky shiver runs down her spine as she feels her clothes dampen. She would let out a giggle but decides against.

"You foul, despicable cockroach. Pathetic lunatic! You let my insults roll off your back like you've used some bloody charm to ward them off?! A fucking saint! What a strong, little girl you are, Lovegood! Tell me, what's your trick? Do you keep plugs in your ears? Or is that you've decided I'm not worth your precious attention?" He spites like there's venom in his mouth that viciously dissolves his organs inside out. His eyes glint with danger, but there's no real threat behind them.

He doesn't believe she will give him an answer he could understand. Luna Lovegood, the airhead pureblood, never offers direct responses for she is the most candid evasive bundle of mystery Draco ever faced.

"Compos mentis."

He loves her blood. Her _pure, pure, purest_ crimson marrow of inexorable life, the essence of existence that opulently gurgles in her pulsating veins. The finest necessity that carries his uncontaminated need. How could such delicious verification of pre-eminence vitalize someone so low, so unworthy and dirty like her?

"You call me a lunatic for the reason that I think insults are just mere words holding no significance, worth nothing more than my willful disregard when you're the one going mad by exposing your mind to such attacks and letting them gorge on your psyche consequently provoking needless stress?"

Verity in her words could reach as far as the Lovegoods were involved. The poor have always had it easy. The Malfoys, however, must rely on their public image. The opinion of Britain's every wizard was like fresh new body for a pandemic disease. They need their altered perception of the Malfoy lineage to keep their family's _amour propre_ alive.

If no one believed in their blood and wealth supremacy how could they execute their disdain of those below them so freely?

"Ignorance is bliss, Lovegood. You think you're open-minded, but you only see with your eyes instead of perceiving with your mind."

Luna quirks a blonde brow and stands up. Water drops are free falling from her wet hair to the water below; conjuring up the illusion of a magical waterfall enlivening the nature around her beautiful form. Few of them find their way to her eye sockets; the liquid causes her prominent eyes shimmer with delight in the darkening afternoon.

Having the momentary confusion all cleared up, a small smile decides to rest on her lips.

"No, Draco, I see with my heart. Nevertheless, the person who's horizon of vision is so broad decides to blindfold himself. A tragedy if you ask me."

Draco must refrain himself from hexing her, so he goes and hexes her Nargles. Only to relieve pent-up frustration, assuredly not because he wants to become her supreme tragedy.

 **Notes:**

 _compos mentis_ \- having full control of one's mind

 _amour-propre_ \- a sense of one's own worth; self-respect


	4. Chapter 4

**I still don't own HP.**

Dainty lines of her faceless twin's loose silhouette are lurking in the far corners of his peripheral vision. Always. He wishes they were _never_ there at all.

Her shadow is the only real part of her he can watch in peace. The association of dark elements of his incorporeal soul can only cut a fresh path through familiar territory. The only question remaining is whether the contour of her two-dimensional being holds any connection to the three-dimensional Luna Lovegood.

He's bored because tormenting first years is no longer an adequate source of fun anymore, being a Head Boy giving out punishments has lost its magic under the Carrow siblings' reign of terror and because Pansy prefers to suck Blaise's dick. But Luna, the ever Loony, is here and he wants to play.

"Entertain me, Lovegood. Let's play a game."

She turns her head to the side whence the smug voice comes. Her face reveals nothing more than childlike curiosity. He hardly ever receives that expression nowadays.

His depravity carves her innocence even if her innocence is just a fancy flower dress she wears in his deplorable fantasies he is so ashamed of. In reality, Luna wears star printed socks with polka dot skirt in contrast to the war corrupted rags wizards of Britain breathe their last in.

Draco doesn't know innocence so innocence comes in the form of a tempestuous fusion of a late summer whirlwind of sunset colors and an ocean storm of sweet ambrosia.

Her arctic-blue orbs embellished chalk-white skin is invitingly begging to get blemished with lampblack from under his manicured nails.

"Fine. Let's play I spy with my little eye."

"In the library, you imbecile? Fine, but I start."

He lazily scans the library but fails to find anything thought-provoking. His gaze then slides over to the blonde head. A self-conceited smirk mars his pointy face as he his eyes intensively bore into hers.

"I spy with my little eye something that's like any other on the outside, but is far more peculiar inside…"

"This object is closed but can open to anyone willing to pay attention to it…"

"It hides a secret passage into an alternative world full of new unknows, but only those who appreciate it are allowed entrance. The more you study it, the more engaged you become, the more you want it…"

"It's very vulnerable though… You use a bit of force, and it lays at your legs in small pieces…"

Luna refuses to tear her eyes away from him. He has put on a nonchalant expression, his voice uncharacteristically airy and strain-free. Draco Malfoy has beautiful hands, she notes. Long fingers with vein garlands appealing with bluish hue against his icy skin, calloused and dry from his unshakeable habit of biting skin off around his nails.

"It's a book," she chimes in dreamily.

"How intelligent our little blood traitor is. Bravo! You go, " he sneers, a feature much more Malfoy-like.

She doesn't look around but dives straight into it.

"I spy with my little eye something, something that has deathly weapons it isn't afraid to use, but only uses when danger comes close to it."

"This something is although violent eye-to-eye, its threat won't reach you if you stand outside its comfort zone it so dearly guards."

"It is in constant fear; paranoia is eating him alive. It won't trust anything unless…"

"Stop," a menacing alarm wrestles through his gritted teeth.

Tiny dots of sweat are beading on his forehead with the purpose of cooling his boiling flesh underneath. His disheveled hair is only a pitiful semblance of the perfect platinum crown he styled his locks into in the morning.

He no longer likes this game.

But she doesn't stop gushing.

"…it has a small, unprotected knot near its base. It's a secret nobody knows. It's so obvious, but nobody knows what this little knot hides so privately. Maybe something that stands close to its base, something…"

"I said shut the fuck up!" He exclaims with anger dripping from his note. His figure abruptly towers over her sitting form as he jumps up from his seat.

He wants to take a step and let her plunge into the dark abyss.

"…that would immobilize him."

She stays calm and reserved, as always.

"I was merely describing the Whomping Willow. Draco, you are funny," a magnetic smile breaks across her face like the idiot she is.

He's seething again, consistently angry with himself and with her, this energy, this fire never failing to burn down his frail paper blockade along with his little paper world erected on the grounds of nothing, but feeble acts of self-preservation, secured by his deteriorating persecution complex. The anxiety of feeling inferior to this sanity-sucking leech as a superior epitome of human self-transcendence he regards himself as is something that wakes the desire to tear that flower dress into rags.

He can't deal with the loss, the realization that he's going to have to start from the very bottom again, constructing a new world, installing a more advanced safety network to keep blonde headed lunatics from breaking into his mind again.

He sentences her to 1-month detention and leaves in a huff.


	5. Chapter 5

**This chapter is longer than usual, hope you like it. I don't own HP.**

Cold chess tiles. _Beauteous pirouette of black pearls in the arms of sea foam._

High vaulted columns adorned with twisting shafts. _Dens of lonesome serpents spiraling into oblivion._

Silver crystal chandelier basking in the opulent light of melting candles. _Slow-paced process of self-apocalypse._

Longcase clock carved out of ebony, its loud ticks reminding everybody of every passing minute of their life. _Everlasting race of big and_ _little handles, time and fate, instant and delayed gratification._

Tongues of emerald flames encompass the eerie atmosphere and cold immobility of the dungeon, casting green sheen on the black leather furniture. _Entry to the winding labyrinth which end's the beginning of a new bend._

Luna sees things, _things_ for which ordinary skulls are too thick to penetrate through.

 _Solitary children torn between their subconscious and conscious are transfixed by the sight of the precious gemstones' blinding dance. Their mind is losing its grip on reality, spellbound by various forms of sensual beauty that never leave the realm of the mundane world all the while bypassing the opportunity to explore questions they may never find satisfying explanations for, but through which they not only uncover obscure aspects of their ever-altering identity but also gain an understanding of the mysterious world they all belong._

She takes liking to the Slytherin common room. It tells a lot about its residents; the spacious room is crammed with attentive details. Poor in color diversity, the predominantly dark place's dispiriting ambiance is pleasantly challenged by the fluorescent green veil that delicately envelops the room's belonging objects, drawing attention to the lifeless skulls hanging from the low ceiling. Distant and cold, yet strangely inviting and tantalizing, perfectly echoing the dual nature of Slytherin character. But the most intriguing quality of the common room is its reticulating tracery windows. The openings are just that; glass fitted portals into the boundless expanse of greenish water that lovingly billows around the dungeon. The smooth movements of the Black Lake's creatures, smaller fishes, the sickly green Grindylows and the equally unfriendly Merpeople contrast strongly with the slick tranquillity paralyzing the common room.

The sound. Luna slowly closes her eyes, leaning against the window frame, entirely focusing on the ear caressing concatenation of comforting sounds that traps her mind among the waves of placid reverie. The soft hissing of the green fire and popping of sparks reverberate around the room while the sound of water rippling and burbling along with the chamber's cold resounding quality comes to embody peace for the human soul.

Luna finds serenity in a place of manifested contradiction and pessimism.

"What the hell are you doing here, Loony?"

An uplifting smile comes to rest on her relaxed features, his voice though packed with irritation and short of nonplus, does not break the magical aura she joyfully bathes in.

"I was curious about where you live in Hogwarts. The password was written on your palm, I noticed in the library. You must be very distracted if you cannot remember it" she explains.

He scoffs, loudly at that. Luna wonders if the reason for his pronounced self-expression could be ascribed to an acute case of attention deprivation. Or it's solely one of his many obnoxious methods of enlightening people that he's not particularly fond of them.

He argues with her. He's not angry anymore, not with her. He, matter of factly, lost his ability to muster enough self-control to plant the seeds of anger because she ( _the moon, the only clarity in the endless night_ ) mercilessly robs him of the single source his malevolent vehemence can blossom by, his mind's daylight. It's an unpredictable change that occurs inevitably every time her large transparent eyes lock him in a steady gaze.

So he gives up, plops down on his favorite couch and lets the sound of nothingness grow between them...

Until the empty space the silence was uninvitingly filling moments ago is seized by her petite figure.

 _The moon is hovering dangerously close to the surface of his soul._

She's light, lighter than his memories of childhood laughter and joy, so his mind doesn't register the soft caresses to which she's subjecting his right hand. When he does, he awkwardly flinches then curses under his breath for showing such pathetic display of weakness.

Her hands are cold, but the tips of her fingers are cozily warm and pleasant. It feels alien, her touch, this disorder of unfamiliar emotions swirling somewhere inside him.

His expression hardens. "Do you want to sit here holding hands in the darkness, Lovegood? Feeling romantic, eh? Sorry to break it to you-"

"Your Jupiter is high and spongy," she interjects his malice infused remark.

He mentally prepares himself for his daily dose of lunacy.

"Here, just under your index finger, there's a bump," Luna taps her finger on the prominent mount, "It indicates how you want to be seen by others and is closely linked to prestige, self-pride, superiority, and respect. Your's exceptionally developed meaning you're self-centered, arrogant and envious though very ambitious."

 _The pulling magic of moon is playing tricks on his senses but he's cursed, he can't run away._

"Look, Loony, I have better things to do than sit here with you listening to your spiritual bullshit and tolerate your weird ways of bullying me," he rolls his eyes but makes no efforts to retrieve his hand.

Her snow-white fingers travel around his wrinkly palm, sometimes tickling his sensitive skin, other times applying pressure just on the right places to send his tense touch receptors into a biology-defying frenzy.

"…Outer Mars seems to be high too, no courage…"

Irritation bubbles up inside him. "Well of bloody fucking course, I'm in Slytherin and not that muggle-loving Gryffindor for a reason!"

"…flat Apollo, poor aesthetic taste, over-indulging in luxury, too focused on material life…"

The sudden burden of compelling urge to defend his dignity weights his lids down, giving his eyes a menacingly hooded look. He rips his hand out of hers, but it soon appears inches from her face.

"And this spot," he points to the apex of his palm, under his middle finger, "this bump stands for cowardice, am I right?"

She excruciatingly slowly lifts her clear orbs to his seething ones _(to send ice arrows through his heart, but instead of a frosty pair of eyes there are only two abundant flower yards in their place_ ).

Peaceful and overwhelming.

"You think I'm a coward because I had a sudden change of heart, took pity on that old geezer and thus I couldn't kill him?" He hisses, eyes narrowing dangerously, "That's not how cowardice works, Loony."

"Let me tell you something, feel honoured," he forcibly continues as her observant silence unnerves him, "It's not able to act upon your faith. And that's exactly why my family fell out of the Dark Lord's favor. Who needs followers that cannot swallow their cowardice to bring about changes that would eventually benefit them? Aren't those Christians who worship their muggle God the same? Believing ensures loyalty, some sort of alliance with God, but what are they exactly doing to help their Lord? Are they sacrificing their personal serenity? Are they overcoming fear and stepping out of their comfort zone? Do you bloody understand me?!"

He deeply inhales, the new dose of oxygen calming his strained nerves. "The likes of me, there are thousands out there! Half of the wizarding world wants privileges, superiority over the mudbloods, but they are merely silent followers the Dark Lord does not give a fuck about! If I don't prove my devotion to Him both in mind and action, then I might as well die in the war fighting for whatever we even stand for."

Draco Malfoy is not a coward because he lacks bloodthirst. Cowardice is not a scale, not numbers, not something grey. Cowardice is not having the guts to look into the eyes of the man, the living fucking embodiment of an ideology to which Draco could and would never adhere his life, and kill the bastard, finally getting the _dirty work_ done.

Draco Malfoy has great faith, he believes in pureblood hegemony, closed stratification system, in himself and most of all in Malfoy supremacy just like Luna Lovegood believes in world peace, infiltration of mudbloods, Potter, poetry and Van Gogh.

But unlike her, he is never really free in his beliefs.

"What you consider cowardice is bravery to some."

To her. In her twisted reality, he's…a hero? A savior? _Someone_ he was never meant to be.

He remains motionless, but a fleeting thought births a new opinion: not even the people on the good side can escape the claws of selfishness that lurks in the pit of their hearts.

"Give me your hand!" He commands, but he's already extending his arms with the intention of encircling her tiny wrist.

"This here. This part is high, what does that mean?"

Her gaze ( _gardens that never stop blooming with different hues of cool blue_ ) drops to where he's anxiously pointing. The edges of her cupid bow lips quirk up in a playful smile. "It's the Luna Mount. It's associated with creativity and imagination, love of nature-"

"Well, isn't it a coincidence. Your head is always up in the fucking clouds. Of course. Thinking up abstract and weird imaginary creatures to…" He abruptly halts, sudden awkwardness washing over him, "Er, and drawing…And taking care of those creepy skeletal ponies. I don't envy your madness. And this one?"

"Mount of Venus. Related to love and affection. It shows I'm rich in sentiments, I have lots of love to give and I enjoy the benefits of true friendships."

A mocking smirk wavers to his ashen lips, suddenly finding himself feeling nostalgic. For the good old time's sake, he honours his exceptionally well-mastered jeering talents that made him famous as the school's official bully. "I can almost see your big heart, Lovegood. That's why you always harass me? You want to share your little love with me?"

Love. Luna has love in her heart, her stomach, her ears and in her eyes.

"I think I would be capable, but I won't."

Even her name spells Love.

"And why not? Afraid of losing Saint Potter's friendship? Or you don't fancy fraternizing with the enemy? But haven't you already proved yourself wrong, Luna?"

Draco is familiar with selfish love, fake love, motherly love, and self-love. But his hungry ego has never swelled with _Good Love_.

"Because your fragile state of mind would crumble under the weight of my love."

His mind floats somewhere in the surreal space between his distressing sense of anticlimax and the evaporating illusion of brief catharsis that never came exploding in small sparks in his system.

He senses softness and rhythmical pressure palpitating below said delicacy.

What a delicate, velvety neck he's holding captive between his long fingers.

"Where the tap of your love, Lovegood? Here, at the vocal cords that produce that annoying voice of yours?" He gives her flesh a little squeeze, but her pale eyes never cloud with mist of fear ( _flower yards, flower yards, where are your purple lilacs?)._

Would it scare you, if I clogged the drain? Would our little Lovegood drown in her own love?"

Luna forgot to mention which mount of Draco's palm rise above all bumps.

Mercury.

Too bad for Draco, Luna isn't afraid of empty words.

 **Thank you, my first commenter for your encouragement! Also, I don't intend to make Draco a complete psycho, don't worry, but this fanfic is no fluff. There will be heavy topics and scenarios, just informing you dear reader.**


	6. Chapter 6

Draco doesn't remember the day he was born or the day he first saturated fallen, dead leaves with salty water. He doesn't remember the shivers of first touches, the expiration date of parental affection.

Nor does he remember the moment he unceremoniously became a brainless soldier of a man fiend with no soul made from the finest atoms.

His vague world of smeared reflections is on constant alert for signs of subjugation imposed by his subconscious that tirelessly ambushes his vast horizon of self-indulgent lies.

How can he not lose himself in the beauteous expanse of sunset beams when the rays of light thread like silky locks of strawberry hair in the tempestuous sky.

His eyes only ever register multi-colored blurs that combine to form a safe spectacle of a world more ignorant than it already is, trespassing the border of the realistic, but not quite rising above it.

Maybe that's why although he sees his reflection in the Mirror of Erised he cannot fathom the depth of the image in his mind.

"What do you see?"

The space between them is over-boarded with questions, sentences ending with exclamation marks defined by scoliosis curves that endlessly poke fun at him, but never seem to bother her.

He wore a golden crown when he was 14. He had his father patting his back, adoration marring his face when he was 15. The air swelled with newfound gas leaking from the bloated body of the murdered ex-principal next to his triumphant silhouette when he was 16. Now at 17, he is a fallen meteor bursting across the night sky adulterated with shadows and dust with no ambitions and no dreams.

His aspirations are momentary, needs brief, nothing lasts, and even emotions abandon him.

Even now, his reflection, _their_ reflection is only depicting the evidence of his quick-paced depersonalization.

What has he come to?

He feels the sudden drive to ask her back, but the desire evaporates into the suffocating air and mixes with her womanly scent that invades his nostrils like sprouting buds of young snowdrops disturbing the grim continuity of winter.

"I see the Winged Victory of Samothrace. It's beautiful. Too bad she's headless."

He doesn't know what she's mumbling about, but if that something is beheaded, he's grateful for not seeing it.

His eyes travel back to the mirror, but the disturbing image makes his stomach flip.

"Hey."

He likes to think this is ephemeral, the magical mirror, the reflection, this unexpected kiss too, just a fleeting moment like that of a human lifetime.

Her fresh flavor reminds him of strange flashbacks his brain haphazardly brings forefront, those which are too random, too bizarre, but the accompanying feeling of worth and importance prompts his mind to store them as special little memories.

But beyond the boundaries of abstract thoughts and surreal images, she tastes of everything he reeks of. His detachment from the shallow world of objects has numbed the receptors in his taste buds, making her lips sweeten with the flavor of the only person he knows inside out the best but despises the most at the same time.

To his surprise, the touch is almost gentle. Maybe it's only the soft response and warm welcome of her lips that palliates the uncontrollable violence and malevolence he attempts to emanate through the kiss.

When he almost believes she's on the brink of collapsing from lack of oxygen, she pushes for more, his green tie painfully tightening around his neck.

Why is she reacting so fervently, he has no idea. Maybe she's just crazy, a madwoman. But why is that every time she reaffirms his conviction of her lunacy she feels less otherworldly, more shackled to the unwritten laws and miseries of the world?

The world is not the world he woke up to survive this morning. Something, something has changed, the molecules have shifted and decomposed. A new element is born.

He breaks the contact. He reorients his gaze from Luna's flushed face that had contorted into an unreadable expression to the fogged up piece of glass where the same reflection stares back at him.

The mist that cooly sits on the surface of the mirror is the lovechild born from the fusion of elemental powers that flatten against the walls of two fervent hearts. Simmering in the blood that flows through the little organ, the stream searches for release outside the body: their oral cavity.

Water and air. Lovers that divide the Earth into two spheres, cut the world into its reflection, split the fate of human tears into droughty death and home. They balance the Order out, the complexity of multilayered emotions trapped in the fathomless well live by breathing cool logic.

She is free water, deep, inhabited and intuitive with arms like caressing waves, inviting and rocking, limpid but mysterious simultaneously. While he is expansive air, chilly, even cold but with a hint of warm breeze cutting through the frost, fresh and radical, vacant, filling the boundless expanse of the sky by itself.

The white haze evaporates, the moment flows by, but the lingering feeling remains.

It stays to hang in the space of the forgotten room, the stray air ousting it like venomous pollen and unripe spore; the water intently watching from below, the eye of the ocean darkening, its heart trembling with the promise of a raging storm.

"Has your deepest desire found its realization?"

He doesn't look back.

"Don't think too highly of yourself."


End file.
